The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1887-05-28
Special Contributors.
THE LARK AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
BY REV. ]. w. HANSON, D. D.

BY REV. ]. w. HANSON, D. D.
Two of the things that had deter
mined upon before left the American
side of the Atlantic, were, to hear and
see the skylark, and hear, for it was
too much to hope to see, the nightin-
gale-neither Of which birds are known
on the Western continent. The lark is
everywhere in Great Britain, seen and
heard, from the first warm days in Feb
ruary, to the cold weather of early au-
tumn. 1t is a little brown bird, not
unlike in form and general appearance
to the plumper of our sparrows. Its
chief peculiarity is that it starts from
the ground, singing, and sings as it
mounts-''up and away with the dew
on it's breast" an indescribable flood of
gushing, bubbling melody, that contin-
ues till the little minstrel is out of sight
in the blue sky, and is often, for a long
time, an invisible song, that gradually
becomes louder, as the bird begins to
descend, and ceases not for moment
while the singer slowly flutters with
tremulous wings, as if he were in an
ecstacy of delight, running over with
happiness that has no vent but his de-
licious strain of music. AS he nears
earth he suddenly changes his trembling
fight, and darts like an arrow to the
ground, his song only ceasing when he
folds his little pinions on the turf from
which his flight and song began.
The poets have often sung its praises.
Shakespeare says:
''Hark, bark, the lark at heavens gate SINGS
Shelley sings:
"Teach US, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
| have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That painted forth a rapture so divine.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips should flow,
The world should listen then as am listening
now"
| shall never forget my first lark.
1t was a lovely April day in bonnie
Scotland. The sky was an inverted
vase of Iapis-lazuH. The Campsie Fells
were like canoes against the transpa-
rent heavens. The grass was all sprink
led with daisies, and l was walking to
find the home and haunts of David
Gray, one of Scotland's minor poets,
whose sweet notes are not unlike those
Of the bird, beloved of all who ever
heard it sing,-when suddenly there
fell into my ear, and heart, and soul,
from out the empyrean, far, far above,
a gush of ravishing melody. Though
never heard before he needed no inter
prefer. Singing lat heavens gate" all
unseen, his music without words told
all the world it was the lark l stood
entranced, as the liquid notes trickled
into my ears, and almost held my breath
till l saw him descend to his straw
thatched nest. 1t was the cheerfullest,
brightest, most joyous strain to which
had ever listened. 1t seemed to be-
long to a world all joy and gladness,
and l irresistibly echoed his song with
the poets words
Hail to thee, blithe spirit
Bird thou never vert
That from heaven, or near it
Poureth thy full heart
In profuse strains of unperverted art.
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire,
The blue deep thus wtngest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever
sngeth."
But | had richer experience wait
ing me. | was in the happy home of
Robert Spears, Highgate, London, when
L said must not leave England with
out hearing the matchless minstrel of
the woods, the nightingale. 1t was in
the nightingale's month, May. We
were not far from the very spot where
Keats heard the song, and wrote his i'm
mortal ode that comes as near as words
of mortal can to describing what will
forever remain indescribable. Our
friend was sure that by leaving home at
midnight, and wandering two or three
miles among the trees and shrubbery
of Hampstead just about where the
bird immortalized by Keats may have
sat, and, as used to be believed, "leant
his breast against a thorn" and sang
so long ago-we might perchance hear
the shy ''prima donna" of the feathered
throng. With my daughter and friend